


Twenty-Nine Candles

by eternalbreath



Series: the cupcake chronicles [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-13
Updated: 2010-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-18 09:50:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalbreath/pseuds/eternalbreath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not the greatest birthday he's ever had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty-Nine Candles

Arthur turns twenty-nine in an alley in Madrid, bleeding all over Eames and his crisp white dress shirt and drugged just enough he can't even fucking stand on his own.

"This pooch is completely screwed," Eames says, cheerily. "It's been quite awhile since I've seen you swear so fabulously. I wonder how long it will take Cobb to figure out I've snatched you and the PASIV both, hmm?"

"Fuck off, it's not like I don't have another," Arthur says, which is a lie. He really hopes Dom and their architect get away from the other team. Arthur likes Anders; he's sharp.

Trust Eames to call him on it. "Ah, but this one is American military modified after you nicked it from our program, and then further modified by you after you nicked it from them. Bloody Americans, have to play grabby hands with everything." Eames sounds smug. "You forget the night you got it to work, haven't you? I was there and you were _delightfully_ cheerful."

Arthur tries to breath in a less painful way and doesn't think of it, because it hurts. Maybe. It could be his knife wound, too. "You don't even _need_ it, you're just playing games," he says, because if Eames wanted the modified PASIVs only he and Dom have, he didn't have to stalk them on a job for it, he could have just asked. "What are you doing here? How the fuck did you break into the dream? Was it that fucking chemist?"

"Give me some credit, Arthur, I don't conspire with louts. Maybe I just wanted the pleasure of your company," Eames says, and of course he ignores the other questions. "Can't get it any other way, busy, busy, Arthur."

"You dumped _me_ , asshole," Arthur says through a groan, and god, he hates fucking knives and drugs and hates that Eames is here watching the job fall to complete and utter shit, hates that really what he wants to do is curl into Eames, press his face into the curve of his neck and breathe in but he's not allowed anymore.

"Oh, well, that's true," Eames says, "but we're not having that argument _again_ , it's not my fault you ran off with the posterboy for madness."

"Whatever," Arthur says. He aches everywhere. "I'm going to find out who hired you and ruin them, Eames, then you." It would be more threatening if he wasn't slurring his words. "Wait."

"Wait?" Eames prompts.

"First I'm going to kill that fucking chemist, that rat—"

Eames laughs, low. "I believe you," Eames props him against the wall.

"You never believe me," Arthur says. "You never do, you always—" There are endless things he could say. Doubt him. Leave him. He has the words to finish but uses the last of his self-control to restrain himself. He can feel himself slipping, only to be caught and squared away by Eames again against rough bricks. "You're here—I know why you're here." Eames is always there when Arthur fucks up, always, it's like he has a sense.

"Oh, Arthur," Eames says, and cups his jaw to kiss him, gentle and familiar. Arthur jerks in surprise which fucking hurts, but then sinks into it. Eames' mouth is warm and his lips are soft, and he smells like all the things Arthur gave up, like home and mornings in their warm bed, and Eames's stubble on his neck, and Arthur _misses_ him, misses him so much. He opens for Eames and lets him in, because he wants to and wants _this_ and if he's going to be left to bleed to death in a filthy alley, he at least wants it to be worth it.

When Eames pulls away Arthur shudders. "God," he says.

"Mmm," Eames agrees, and rubs their cheeks together. "You're so high, Arthur, I am having trouble not laughing at you."

"You are the worst," Arthur grumbles, and finally does let his head fall onto Eames's shoulder, nuzzles into him, and Eames lets him.

"You don't really think that," Eames says, "but you may revise your opinion tomorrow," and that makes no sense, until he knocks Arthur unconscious.

Arthur wakes up in a messy apartment, flooded with sunlight, with a mild headache, languorous with the feeling of good drugs instead of whatever shit the backstabbing chemist had given him. The bed is soft and the sheets smell like Eames, which makes sense, because Eames keeps a flat in Madrid — Arthur had just never been able to find it. His torso is banadged; the pull of stitches makes him careful as he gets up.

He's clean and cared for but doesn't expect to find Eames anywhere; he's long gone by now. He takes some clothes from the dresser that fit to an extent, rolling his eyes that his own clothes are gone, probably forever. When he wanders out of the bedroom into the kitchen, the PASIV case is glittering on a barstool in the afternoon light. Arthur stares at it for a long moment.

There's a cupcake on a napkin in the barren kitchen, next to his phone, which is blinking with missed calls and texts. On the cupcake, speared with one unlit candle, his name is misspelled.

"Goddamnit," he says, but eats the cupcake, anyway.


End file.
